UC-NRLF 


573    55b 


rornicd 


GIFT   OF 


^^ 


CALIFORNIA 


By 
WILLIAM  HATHORN  MILLS 


San  Bernardino,  California 
BARNUM  &  FLAGG  COMPANY 

1919 
Copyright 


Contents 

Page 

The  Golden  West 5 

A  Great  Franciscan 6 

San  Bernardino  8 

San  Buenaventura 9 

Los  Angeles  11 

Ontario    12 

El  Camino  Real 13 

A  Fair  Land 14 

Flora   Californica   15 

Sursum  Corda 16 

Orange  Day 17 

Northers    18 

A  Famous  Victory 18 

Ruri 20 

It  Was  Evening  and  It  Was  Morning 21 

After  Sundown  21 

A  Sunrise 23 

Achievement  24 

Early  Days  24 

A  Year  Later 25 

Forty  Years  Later 26 

Camp-followers    27 

An  Imp  28 

Big  Bear  Lake 31 

Trails  32 

Things  Old  and  New 34 

Forbidden  Fruit  35 

Titular  Honours 35 

In  the  Wilderness 37 

Some  Dawg 38 

Billy   40 

The  Golden  Rule 41 

California    43 

Aurea  Poma 44 

Eschscholtzia   45 

Out  West 47 


The  Golden  West 

T^HE  isle  that  to  Mental vo  seemed 
x    Half   faery,   half   Elysian, 
What  time  he  wrote,  and  writing  dreamed, 
Las  Sergas  de  Esplandian — 

This,  less  all  freaks  of  phantasy, 

Less  fables  born  to  die  away, 
A  dream-land  made  reality, 

Our  California  is  to-day. 

All  sorts  of  fruits  it  freely  bears 

In   groves,   thick  laden   as   Christmas   trees — 
Oranges,  lemons,  apples,  pears, 

Figs,  olives,  peaches, — what  you  please. 

Elsewhere  it  is  as  a  garden-field 

Of  flowers,  asparagus,  beet,  tomatoes; 

Its  very  deserts,  watered,  yield 
Alfalfa,  melons,  dates,  potatoes. 

"A  land  of  corn  and  wine  and  oil" — 

That  is  what  Canaan  was  of  old; 
All  this  our  Californian  soil 

Is;  you  may  add  its  herds  and  gold. 

For  it's  also  a  land  of  ranches,  where 
Cattle  and  horses  are  bred  and  fed; 

It's  also  a  land,  where  miners  tear 
The  golden  ore  from  its  native  bed. 

But  its  best  possession,  its  best  asset, 

Is  the  gold  that  ripens  the  fruits  it  bears — 


The  sunshine-gold,  which  all  may  get, 
For  it's  lavished  on  all  in  equal  shares. 

These  are  those  who  call  it  "the  Land  of  Heart's 

Desire" — a  present  Utopia; 
Those,  who  have  studied  the  ancient  arts, 

Might  call  it  a  Cornucopia. 

Others  have  named  it  "the  Golden  Land" — 

An  El  Dorado  realized; 
But  its  minerals  bring  less  gold  to  hand 

Than  the  fields  its  rivers  have  fertilized. 

Call  it  whatever  you  will,  it  is 

The  pick  of  the  earth — a  paradise, 

With  certain  eccentricities, 

Of  fruitful  fields  and  smiling  skies. 

It  isn't  perfect;  that's  confest; 

Eden  itself  with  a  snake  was  curst; 
But,  spite  of  rattlers,  and  of  that  pest, 

Culex,  of  all  lands  it's  the  first. 

A  Great  Franciscan 

pRAY  Juniper o  Serra,  we, 
1    Pondering  your  life-history, 
Bare  our  heads  to  your  memory. 

Truly  yours  was  a  beautiful  soul; 
Truly  yours  was  a  lofty  goal; 
Truly  your  life  was  a  perfect  whole. 

As  a  valiant  soldier  of  Christ,  you  bore 

The  brunt  of  the  battle  that  won  this  shore, 

And  we  hail  you  its  true  Conquistador. 


Si  monumentum  quaeritis, 

Strangers,  who  visit  this  land,  it  is 

All  round  about  you,  and  it's  just  this: — 

A  land  from  heathen  savageries 
Redeemed  by  uplifting  enterprise, 
And  made  a  fruitful  paradise. 

It's  all  an  issue  of  what  he  wrought: 

A  realization  of  what  he  sought: 

A  fruit  of  the  lessons  he  lived  and  taught. 

For  he  was  the  first  evangelist 

Who  brought  to  this  land  the  Name  of  Christ — 

Aye,  and  its  first  agriculturist. 

He  taught  the  natives  the  arts  of  peace; 

He  made  their  abominations  cease; 

He  changed  their  deserts  to  tilths  and  leas. 

Weary  often  he  must  have  been 

In  body — aye,  and  in  soul,  I  ween, 

But  his  heart  was  great,  and  his  faith  serene. 

And  so  the  dreams  of  his  youth  came  true; 
For  the  Indians  loved  him — believed  him  too, 
And  did  whatever  he  bade  them  do. 

Won  by  his  influence  they  became 
Christians — disciples,  whose   lifelong  aim 
Was  to  live  lives  worthy  of  their  new  name. 

And  the  mission  stations  he  founded  here, 
Tho'  ruined  now,  are  a  witness  clear 
Of  his  work,  and  make  his  memory  dear. 


8 

Aye,  and  of  sacrilege  they  indict 

Those  who  afterwards  did  despite 

To  his  order,  as  reckoning  Might  was  Right. 

Fray  Junipero,  loyal  son 

Of  the  Faith,  I  think,  when  your  race  was  run, 

You  heard  your  Master's— "Well  done:  Well  done.' 

San  Bernardino 

ABOUT  us  tower,  a  vision  grand! 
San  Bernardino's  peak  and  range; 
Like  giant  battlements  they  stand 

Changeless,  yet  monuments  of  change. 

Snow-crowned,  magnificent,  serene, 

They  seem  to  meet  and  pierce  the  skies — 

A  sheltering  rampart,  and  a  screen 
From  the  chill  North's  discourtesies. 

It's  thanks  to  them  that  the  valley  teems 

With  flowers  and  fruits,  with  corn  and  oil; 

For    the    waters,    caught    from    their  springs  and 

streams, 
Make  runnels  to  irrigate  the  soil. 

What's  in  a  name?    Well,  names  there  are, 
The  sound  of  which,  as  a  trumpet-call, 

Summons  to  fight  for  the  right,  and  dare 
All  for  its  sake,  tho'  the  heavens  fall. 

Aye,  dare  whatever  a  man  may  do, 
Or  bear— as  erst  the  Apostle  Paul, 

de  Xavier,  Damien,  dared,  what  tho' 

To  do  what  they  did  was  to  lost  their  all: 


9 

All,  that  is,  that  the  world  counts  good — 
Its  ease,  its  pleasures,  its  luxuries; 

All  that  our  natural  tempers  would 
Choose  as  a  heritage  and  prize. 

That  was  the  way  of  the  friars,  who  came 

Hither  a  hundred  years  ago; 
That  was  the  way  of  the  Saint,  whose  name 

They  set  on  the  hills,  and  the  vale  below. 

It's  just  the  way  of  the  Cross — the  way 
Of  self-denial  for  others'  sake — 

The  way,  whatever  the  world  may  say, 
All  of  us  always  are  called  to  take. 

So  we  dwell  in  the  midst  of  memories, 
As  well  as  amid  fair  scenes  of  beauty — 

Memories  calling  to  high  emprize, 
And  steadfast  effort  to  do  our  duty. 

San  Bernardino,  here's  to  your  health; 

Here's  to  your  growth,  and  prosperity; 
And  we  wish  you,  what  is  the  truest  wealth, 
Courage  and  faith  in  your  destiny. 

San  Buenaventura 

VENTURA,  they  who  lately  dipt 
v  Your  name,  and  "San  Buena"  skipt, 
Into  a  blunder  surely  slipt. 

What's  in  a  name?    There's  this— a  claim 
That  they,  who  bear  a  noble  name, 
Should  live  lives  worthy  of  its  fame. 


10 

San  Bernardino  dipt,  it's  true, 
Saves  breath,  but  then  it  loses  too 
All  inspiration  as  Berdoo. 

Fortune  may  be  or  good  or  ill, 
And,  seeming  good,  may  but  fulfil 
The  mockeries  of  an  evil  will. 

Success  may  be  too  dearly  bought, 
And  fortune's  gifts,  if  wrongly  sought, 
And  wrongly  won,  are  things  of  naught. 

So  "San  Buena"  seems  to  say, 
Seek  fortune  in  a  righteous  way, 
As  in  Junipero's  earthly  day: 

Who  gave  this  place  in  days  of  yore 
The  name  a  Christian  saint  once  bore, 
To  christen  it  for  evermore. 

Therefore,  Venturans,  don't  forget 
The  prefix  which  of  old  was  set 
Before  your  name,  and  should  be  yet. 

Let  memories  of  your  ancient  name 
Move  you  to  make  your  every  aim 
Such  as  Junipero  would  acclaim. 

Your  Mission  Churches  stand  to  teach 
What  faith  and  duty  mean,  and  preach 
Christ  unto  all  within  their  reach. 

Long  may  they  serve  their  ministry; 

Long  may  the  Cross,  which  stands  on  high, 

Lesson  you  how  to  live  and  die. 


11 

A  beacon  for  the  ships  at  sea, 
A  beacon  may  it  also  be 
Signalling  souls — "Come  unto  ME." 

Fair  are  your  mountains,  fair  your  sea; 
Your  fruits  and  flowers  are  fair  to  see; 
Aye,  all  is  fair  as  fair  can  be. 

Let  these  reflections  of  God's  grace 
Move  you  to  run  your  earthly  race 
As  souls  who  long  to  see  His  Face. 


Los  Angeles 


L 


OS  Angeles,  the  angels'  town! 

What  if  an  angel-host  came  down 

To  visit  their  own  city? 
What  would  their  thoughts  be?   Thoughts  of  glad 
Emotion,  or  reflections  sad 

Of  sorrow  and  of  pity? 

Some  things  they  surely  would  approve 
As  tokens  of  unselfish  love 

At  work  for  human  weal — 
Your  hospitals,  your  libraries, 
Museum,  parks,  academies, 

Your  Churches'  holy  zeal. 

But  are  there  not,  your  bounds  within, 
Abodes  of  vice,  foul  haunts  of  sin, 

Which  shame  your  high  estate? 
Are  there  not  crimes  and  infamies 
Practised  by  brutes  in  human  guise — 

Things  such  as  angels  hate? 


12 

O  Angelenos,  let  your  aim 
Be  to  live  worthy  of  the  name 

The  holy  name — you  bear; 
So  shall  the  angels  help  and  guide 
And  keep  you,  whatsoe'er  betide, 

For  ever  in  their  care. 


Ontario 

(California.) 

that  is,  in  English  phrase, 

"Great  Lake"— thus  Hiawatha's  brotherhood,* 
"They  of  the  long  lodge,"  named  in  ancient  days, 
The  inland  sea  fed  by  Niagara's  flood. 

We,  too,  on  whom  Old  Baldy's  head  looks  down, 
Have  an  Ontario;  but  what's  our  claim 

To  use  this  title  for  our  little  town? 

Where's  the  "Great  Lake"  to  justify  the  name  ? 

The  lake  is  here  all  right.   Yes,  but,  as  tho' 
Set  upside  down  by  a  gigantic  hand, 

It  lies  interned  'neath  eighty  feet  or  so 

Of  solid  earth — gravel  and  clay  and  sand. 

A  sandy  waste — that's  what  the  valley  seems; 

But  tap  the  subterranean  lake,  and  lo! 
The  desert  is  as  garden-land  that  teems 

With  crops  of  all  the  fruits  and  flowers  that  grow. 

A  miracle  ?    Well,  yes.   Yet  it's  a  thing 

That  human  hands  are  working  day  by  day; 

They  bore  and  pump,  and  then  "Water  is  King", 
And  the  waste  places  answer  to  its  sway. 


13 

The  hidden  things  of  Nature  are  the  gifts 
She  has  for  those  who  seek,  who  follow  on 

Until  they  find;  such  seeking  souls  she  lifts 

From  truth  to  truth  till  the  great  Truth  is  won. 

*  The  Iroquois. 


El  Camino  Real 


A 


S  erst  Saint  Paul  went  forth  to  claim 
'The  kingdoms  of  the  world  for  Christ, 
So  Fra  Junipero  Serra  came 
To  be  this  land's  evangelist. 

Never  was  truer  Saint  of  all 

The  souls  who  that  high  name  have  won; 
His  was  the  courage  of  Saint  Paul; 

His  was  the  spirit  of  Saint  John. 

He  opened  out  the  "King's  Highway," 

The  aim  of  his  imaginings 
Being  that  it  should  be  for  aye 

A  Highway  of  the  King  of  kings: 

No  common  road,  tho'  all  might  fare 

Along  it,  but  a  road  whereby 
The  messengers  of  peace  might  bear 

Their  message  and  their  ministry. 

From  South  to  North  the  stations  rose, 
Which  marked  the  track  of  that  highway; 

Each  held  aloft  the  Cross  which  shows 

God's  truth,  God's  love,  God's  conquering  sway. 


14 

And  Indians,  won  from  their  fierce  creeds, 
Learnt  to  obey  the  law  of  Christ; 

Its  Gospel  satisfied  their  needs; 
They  tested  it,  and  it  sufficed. 

So  "El  Camino  Real"  came 

To  be  a  royal  road  indeed; 
It  realized  Junipero's  aim, 

And  is  of  his  eternal  meed. 

For,  consecrate  by  him,  it  was 

A  very  "Way  of  Holiness"— 
A  way  by  which  freed  souls  might  pass 

Zionward  thro'   earth's  wilderness. 

A  Fair  Land 

THIS  is  the  fabled  region  where 
The  Hyperboreans  lived  out  West — 
An  Eden,  ever  bright  and  fair, 

Which  great  Apollo  ruled  and  blest. 
It  is  the  garden,  named  of  old 

"The  garden  of  the  Hesperides," 
Whose  golden  Avalon  foretold 
Our  groves  of  golden  oranges. 

It  is  the  land  men  wont  to  call 

Atlantis — an  ideal  Isle, 
Whereon  the  sun  at  evenfall 

Smiled,  as  he  set,  his  farewell  smile— 
The  land  which,  in  a  later  day, 

Padre  Junipero  Serra  trod, 
What  time  he  built  "The  King's  Highway," 

And  consecrated  it  to  God. 


15 

That,  at  which  Earth's  old-timers  guessed, 

Or  gazed  as  in  prophetic  dream, 
Before  our  eyes  is  manifest, 

And  bids  us  still  "follow  the  Gleam"— 
The  Gleam,  which  flashes  light  thro'  sin 

And  death,  and  gives  to  weary  men 
Foreglimpses  of  an  age  wherein 

Earth  shall  be  Paradise  agani. 


Flora  Californica 

0  where  you  will  in  this  fair  land, 
By  canyon,  chaparral  belt,  morass, 
Up  mountain  trail,  by  ocean  strand, 
Wild  flowers  salute  you  as  you  pass. 

Scattered  about  in  gay  parterres, 

You  see  the  flower  that  types  our  State: 

That   gilds   rude   wastes,   once   brown   and   bare: 
That  makes  the  gold  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

The  Spanish  bayonet  rears  its  head 

With  its  bell-hung  spike — a  gallant  sight; 

The  wild  paint-brushes  dash  with  red 
A  riot  of  yellow  and  blue  and  white. 

Roses,  primroses,  pimpernels, 

Heaths,  lilies,  violets,  pinks  galore, 

Brooms,  sunflowers,  Canterbury  bells — 
You  meet  all  these  and  a  hundred  more. 

There  are  those  that  greet  you  from  afar; 

There  are  those  that  cluster  about  your  feet; 
But,  far  away  or  anear,  they  are 

Friends,  and  the  welcome  of  friends  is  sweet. 


16 

All  lands  are  God's,  but  of  all  lands  this 
Seems  likest  Eden  before  the  Fall; 

And  its  wild  flowers  seem  to  stamp  it  His, 
As  with  His  own  seal-manual. 

Sursum  Corda 

/\  BOUT  us  stand,  in  brave  array, 

*•  Hills,  an  encircling  galaxy, 
Save  where  they  slope  to  make  a  way 

For  winds  that  blow  from  the  Western  sea. 

Old  Baldy,  Cucamonga's  height, 

The  long  range  of  Saint  Bernardine, 

The  mountains  Santa  Ana  hight, 
Jurupa's  rugged  peak  and  chine — 

These  are  our  Hills;  within  their  reach 

Our  valley  lies  from  end  to  end; 
They  compass  us  about,  and  each 

Is  to  us  monitor  and  friend. 

They  gather  and  hold  the  winter  snow 
In  storage  for  the  coming  Spring; 

From  them  the  hidden  waters  flow 

That  make  the  valley  laugh  and  sing. 

Pointing  aloft,  and  crowned,  each  morn 

And  eve,  with  a  light  ineffable: 
Steadfast,  tho'  of  convulsions  born — 

What  are  they  but  a  parable? 

Our  thoughts  are  turned  on  crops  and  marts, 
On  cares  and  tasks  that  each  day  brings; 

They  say  to  us — "Lift  up  your  hearts, 
And  set  them  on  eternal  things." 


17 

They  speak  of  order,  shaped  and  made 

Sure  by  the  very  pangs  of  birth; 
They  bid  us  wait,  nor  be  dismayed, 

Tho'  Armageddon  shake  the  earth. 

Hills  of  the  Great  Pacific  Coast, 

Ye  have  no  voice,  but  there  is  a  word 

In  you  as  the  psalm  of  a  mighty  host 

That  praises,  and  bids  us  praise,  the  Lord. 

Orange  Day 

T  N  CALIFORNIA'S  heart  there  lies 
*•    A  country  that  Pomona  loves — 
A  paradise  in  a  paradise — 

The  kite-shaped  tract  of  orange  groves. 

Navels,  Valencias,  Tangerines, 

Lemons,  within  that  belt  are  found — 

Aye,  all  the  tribe  of  the  Citrines — 
And  mark  it  as  enchanted  ground. 

Eastward,  as  with  wide-opened  arms — 
The  arms  of  welcoming  constraint — 

Stands,  as  a  portress  to  these  charms, 
The  city  of  Siena's  Saint. 

And  once  a  year,  to  manifest 

To  all  the  lands  that  lie  back  East 

One  glory  of  the  Golden  West, 

She  celebrates  our  Orange  feast. 

So  too,  amid  the  festal  days, 

Which  California  marks  with  white, 

One  bears  the  name,  and  tells  the  praise, 
Of  her  best  fruit,  her  heart's  delight. 


18 

We  keep  this  day  in  gratitude 

For  this  fair  fruit,  this  golden  gift; 

It's  up  to  us  to  make  this  mood 
An  inspiration  and  uplift. 

Northers 

(CHARLES  KINGSLEY  once  upon  a  time 
v-x  Welcomed  in  verse  the  North-East  wind; 
And  yet  one  slew  him  in  his  prime, 
Which  surely  wasn't  very  kind. 

We  too  of  California  know 

North-Easters — more's  the  pity  o't; 

And  some  of  them  are  cold  enow, 
And  some  abominably  hot. 

In  praise  of  them  I'll  write  no  ditty; 

Or  cold  or  hot  they  are  a  pest; 
I'll  only  say  it  is  a  pity 

They  can't  be  instantly  suppressed. 

The  only  use  that  I  can  see 
In  them's  to  make  us  realize 

That  in  this  present  order  we 
Can't  have  a  perfect  paradise. 

A  Famous  Victory 

(March  14,  1915.) 

OWN  the  Cajon  Pass  rushed,  aslant 
Our  vale,  a  Norther  on  mischief  bent; 
To  blast  the  young  alfalfa  plant, 

And  drift  the  sand,  was  its  fell  intent. 


19 

It  raised  sand-clouds  that  hid  from  sight 
The  hills  and  even  the  sunny  sky; 

And  we  thought  of  it  as  an  evil  sprite — 
The  breath  of  a  demon's  jealousy. 

We  watched  its  approach  with  a  boding  fear — 

A  fear  akin  to  a  grim  dismay; 
For  the  clouds  came  nearer  and  yet  more  near, 

Till  they  weren't  much  more  than  a  mile  away. 

'Twas  10  of  the  morn;  thus  far,  that  day, 
A  wind  had  blown  from  the  Western  sea — 

A  kindly  Zephyr  that  seemed  to  say, 
"My  work  is  a  work  of  charity." 

For  a  little  while,  as  if  surprised 

By  the  sudden  rush  of  that  desert  wind — 

As  if  it  hadn't  yet  realized 

The  danger — it  seemed  of  uncertain  mind. 

It  was  but  taking  breath;  anon 
It  rose  to  the  instant  emergency; 

And,  like  a  giant  refreshed,  put  on 

Its  strength,  and  clashed  with  the  enemy. 

It  met  the  challenge,  accepted  it, 

And  flung  it  back,  all  undismayed; 

It  made  the  invader  turn  and  quit — 
Routed  it;  so  the  plague  was  stayed. 

Thereafter,  until  the  day  was  done, 

It  blew  more  softly,  yet  freshly  still; 

It  seemed  content,  now  the  fight  was  won, 
To  reassure  us  of  its  good-will. 


20 

Our  West  winds  call  at  Los  Angeles, 

On  their  way  to  us  from  across  the  sea; 

So   we   reckoned   the   angels  were   in   that   day's 
War,   and  gave   thanks   for  their   ministry. 

Ruri 

""THERE,  is  a  charm  in  city-life — 
1  Its  business,  its  society; 
Some  even  like  its  noise  and  strife; 
But  Oh!   a  country-life  for  me. 

I've  lived  in  cites,  great  and  small; 

I've  wrought  and  ruffled  it  with  the  best; 
Yes,  but  the  issue    of  it  -all 

Was  simply  this — longing  for  rest. 

For  rest,  that  is,  from  hustling — not 

Surcease   from  work   of   heart   and   hand; 

Such  rest  as  this  I  think  I've  got 

Now,  for  we've  gone  "back  to  the  land." 

We  lack  some  luxuries,  no  doubt, 

For  shops  and  library  are  afar; 
Our  little  market  town's   about 

Five  miles  away,  and  we've  no  car. 

Yes,  but  we  also  lack  the  roar — 

The   hurly-burly — of   the   town; 
We  cross  our  roads  at  leisure,  nor 

Fear  lest  road-hogs  should  knock  us  down. 

We've  lots  to  think  of,  lots  to  do; 

In  fact  with  jobs  we're  mostly  throng; 

Nor  are  we  lonely,  for,  tho'  few- 
Folk  are  about,  they're  coming  along. 


21 

And  more  will  come;  this  settlers'  land 

Claims  thousands  more,  and  it's  good  to  know 

That  folk  may  come  by  the  thousands,  and 
For  all  of  them  there'll  be  room  enow. 

We  want  no  slugs,  no  "I-won't-work"s; 

The  land  has  no  room  for  that  crew — 
No  room  or  use  for  the  man  who  shirks; 

That  sort  may  go  to  Timbuctoo. 

Millions  of  fertile  acres  cry 

For  plough  and  labour  to  claim  their  wealth; 
And  the  meed  of  a  rancher's  industry 

Is  not  only  crops,  but  peace  and  health. 

It  Was  Evening 

and 
It  Was  Morning 

I. 
AFTER  SUNDOWN 

THE  sun  had  set,  but  far  away 
1  The  mountains  held  its  radiancy; 
And  clouds  above  the  horizon  lay 
Like  islets  in  a  silvern  sea. 

What  seemed  like  rippling  wavelets  lapped 

The  fringes  of  each  islet's  coast; 
What  seemed  like  crowns  of  glory  capped 

The  summits  of  the  westernmost. 

On  the  near  isles  one  might  descry, 
Or  think  it,  groves  of  stately  trees, 


22 

And  on  the  main  the  apparency 

Of  white-sailed  boats   that   crossed   the   seas. 

Here,  growing  chillness  in  the  air, 

And  shadows  of  advancing  night: 
There,  warmth  and  all  things  everywhere 

Bathed  in  a  flood  of  gracious  light. 

All  an  illusion?    Well,  maybe; 

And  yet  one  wonders  if  at  times 
A  veil  is  lifted,  and  we  see 

Reflections    of    serener    climes. 

"The  light  that  never  was" — was  this 

A  gleam  of  its  ideal   sheen: 
A  revelation  of  what  is 

Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  seen? 

The  happy  Islands  of  the  Blest, 

Atlantis  of  Egyptian  fame, 
The  Hyperboreans'  home  of  rest — 

Were  these  a  name,  and  but  a  name? 

The  gardens  of  the  Hesperides, 

Where  Hera's  golden  apples  grew, 

Elysium,  Avalon — were  these 

Dream-isles  or  visions  of  the  true  ? 

Ah,  who  shall  say?    Yet,  tho'  our  eyes 

Cannot  discern  its  immanence, 
Ever  the  world  Eternal  lies 

About  this  world  of  time  and  sense. 

As  in  a  mirror  now  we  see 

The  things  that  are,  as  mysteries; 


23 

And  that  fair  vision,  it  may  be, 
Mirrored  the   things   of   Paradise. 

It  showed,  as  in  a  mystic  scene, 

A  picture  of  night-conquering  day, 

Flashed,  as  it  were,  upon  the  screen, 
And  lit,  by  an  Eternal  ray. 

II. 
A    SUNRISE. 

Fog  all  around — a  fog  that  hid 

The  very  mountains  from  our  sight: 

That  seemed  to  challenge  and  forbid 

The  morning's  claim — "let  there  be  light"- 

So  broke  the  day;   it  was  as  tho' 

The  powers  of  darkness  and  of  light 

Were  battling,  and  one  might  not  know 

Which  of  the  twain  would  win  the  fight. 

Then,  with  a  leap,  or  so  it  seemed, 
Above  the  hill-tops  rose  the   sun; 

It  chased  the  night;   its  radiance  streamed 
Thoro'  the  fog;  the  fight  was  won. 

A  glory  lit  the  Eastern  skies; 

A  splendour  crowned  the  Eastern  heights; 
The  valley  seemed  a  paradise, 

That  woke   to   greet  the   Light   of   lights. 

Thereafter  came  a  golden  day — 

Sunshine  and  breezes  from  the  West — 

One  of  the  days  that  make  us  say, 
"  'Tis  California  at  her  best." 


24 

Not  all  our  morns  are  such  as  this; 

Perhaps  it  came  to  lift  our  eyes        „ 
Beyond   earth's   glooms  to   Him,   Who   is 

Lord  of  all  suns  and  worlds  and  skies. 


Achievement 

A  SETTLER'S  THOUGHTS 
I. 

EARLY  DAYS. 

CHE'S. coming  to  me 
^  Across  the  sea — 

The   lass   that   I   left   in   the   Old   Countree; 
She's  coming  to  bear 
My  name,  and  share 
My  life,  my  every  joy  and  care. 

For  her  dear  sake 

I  came  to  make 
A  home  in  this  waste  of  brush  and  brake; 

And  my  task,  I  trow 

Is   accomplished  now, 
For  my  land's  all  watered  and  under  plough. 

The  crops  of  a  year 

Have  set  me  clear 
To  build  a  house  that  will  please  my  dear; 

And  before  my  eyes 

All-fertile  lies, 
Won  from  the  desert,  a  paradise. 


25 

0  bless  the  man 

Out  of  whose  brain-pan 
Came  the  thought  of  wells  Artesian, 

For  the  water  flows, 

And  each  food-plant  grows, 
Till  the  wilderness  blossoms  as  the  rose. 

She's  coming  to  me 

Across  the  sea — 
The  lass  that  I  left  in  the  Old  Countree; 

She's   coming   to   bear 

My  name,  and  share 
My  life,  my  every  joy  and  care. 

II. 
A  YEAR  LATER 

She  came  to  me 

Across    the    sea — 
The   lass   that   I   left   in   the    Old   Countree; 

'Twas  as  I  said: 

So  we  got  wed, 
And  are  doing  our  best  to  go  ahead. 

It's  half  a  year 

Since  I  met  my  dear, 
And   she  stepped   ashore  on  New  York  pier; 

Then  right  anon 

We  were  made  one, 
And  gee!  how  quickly  the  months  have  gone. 

She's  brought  me  luck, 
And  I  shan't  get  stuck 
If  only  I've  half  her  grit  and  pluck; 


26 

While  she  is  near 
I  cannot  fear, 
For  her  very  presence  is  help  and  cheer. 

There's  work  to  do — 

Uphill  work  too — 
Or  ever  success  comes  into  view; 

But,  if  I'm  not  wrong, 

We  shan't  be  long 
In  making  good,  for  we're  going  strong. 

We've  got  a  plan 

To  found  a  clan 
Right  here,  as  soon  as  ever  we  can; 

And  possibly 

That  thing  may  be, 
For  we're  thinking  now  of  a  family. 

III. 
FORTY  YEARS  LATER 

As  I  look  back 

On  life's  past  track, 
The   moral    seems   to   be — "Don't   be   slack. 

Stand  for  the  right, 

And  with  all  your  might 
Do  each  day's  tasks  before  the  night." 

After  a  while 

We  made  our  pile, 
Tho'  at  times  the  kettle  was  slow  to  bile. 

'Twas  toughish  work, 

But  we  didn't  shirk, 
And  we  never  suffered  our  jobs  to  irk. 


27 

With  a  will  we  wrought; 

With  a  will  we  sought 
To  do  our  duty  as  scamping  naught. 

Our  simple  creed — 

Goo^work,  good  speed — 
Cut  out  "manana"  from  thought  and  deed. 

We  had  a  plan, 

When  we  began 
Our  life's  work  here,  to  found  a  clan; 

And  that  clan,  I  trow, 

Is  founded  now, 
If  four  generations  are  enow. 

She's  still  with  me, 

Who  crossed  the  sea, 
As  a  lass,  at  my  call,  from  the  Old  Countree. 

Her  hair  is  white, 

But  her   smile's   as  bright 
As   ever,  and   she's  my  heart's  delight. 

Camp  Followers 

D  OAD-RUNNERS   three   our  camp   frequent, 
A^And  eat  up  all  our  odds  and  ends; 
They  look  on  us,  I  guess,  as  sent 

By   Providence   to   be    their   friends. 

Fragments  of  bread  and  cheese  and  fruit: 
What  we  don't  want  of  quail  and  duck: 

Such  things  as  these  all  seem  to  suit 

Their   taste;   they   take  them   as   pot-luck. 

One  visitor  we  had   complained 

He'd  left  one  night  at  his  tent-door 


28 

A  dozen  eggs;  next  morn  remained 

Twelve   empty   egg-shells — nothing   more. 

Road-runners   had    surveyed   the    show; 

Had  found  his  eggs,  and  sucked  the  lot; 
This  aggravated  him,   and   so 

He  finished  their  career  with  shot. 

He'd  not  forgiven  them;   as  for  me, 
Who  have  no  new-laid  eggs  at  stake, 

Birds  that  eat  rattlesnakes  are  free 
To  take  whatever  they  can  take. 

They're  haying   carousals   now   around 
The  chair  whereon  I  sit  and  smoke; 

One's  not  two  yards   away;   he's  found 
I'm   not   an   inimical   bloke. 

He  lifts  and  lowers  his  nodding  crest; 

His  tail  wags  ceaselessly;   I  think 
He's  really  doing  his  very  best 

To  perpetrate  a  friendly  wink. 

Ah!  in  a  moment  he  has  gone; 

He  has  a  feud,  which  nought  can  staunch. 
With  passing  motor-cars,  and  one 

Is  hurrying  up  toward  the  ranch. 


T 


An  Imp 


HE  little  chipmunk 
Is  full  of  spunk, 

And  it  takes  a  lot  to  skeer  him; 
Yet  he's  also  wary, 
And  somewhat  chary 

Of  letting  you  get  too  near  him. 


29 

But  all  the  same, 

He  soon  gets  tame, 
Especially  if  you  feed  him; 

He'll  sit  on  your  foot, 

As  on  a  tree-root, 
Or  stump,  if  you  don't  stampede  him. 

It  isn't  funk 

When  he  makes  a  bunk, 
But  he  takes  no  needless  chances; 

He's  pert  and  spry, 

Or  still  and  shy, 
According  to  circumstances. 

He  burrows  a  hole — 

This  wily  soul — 
In  the  ground,  and  there  takes  shelter; 

Or,  if  need  be, 

Streaks  up  a  tree 
With  his  family,  helter-skelter. 

He  sits  on  his  heels 

To  take  his  meals, 
And  his  jaws  go  snicker-snicker, 

With  the  energy 

And  velocity 
Of  a  Waterbury  ticker. 

Locusts  he'll  eat, 

But  he's  mighty  sweet 
On  corn,  new-sown  or  reapit; 

And  he'll  loot  your  larder, 

If  you've  no  warder, 
In  the  shape  of  a  cat,  to  keep  it. 


30 

He  munches  apples; 

With  nuts  he  grapples; 
Likes  carrots  and  beans  and  berries; 

His  appetite 

Is  cosmopolite, 
But  he's  extra  fond  of  cherries. 

His  cheeks  bulge  out 

Till  they're  just  about 
As  tight  as  he  well  can  pack  'em; 

Then  off  to  his  holt 

He  makes  a  bolt, 
To  digest  his  supplies,  or  stack  'em. 

An  inch  away 

From  his  hole  one  day 
I  laid  a  rind  of  bacon; 

He  sat  on  a  chunk 

Of  wood,  and  wunk 
At  me,  if  I'm  not  mistaken. 

As  soon  as  I'd  gone 
To  my  chair,  he  was  on 

The  spot,  to  inspect  this  treasure; 
He  nibbled  a  bit, 
And  it  seemed  to  fit; 

So  he  finished  it  at  his  leisure. 

Would  fish  food  vary 

His  dietary — 
I  wondered,  and  thought  I'd  try  it; 

The  head  of  a  trout 

Resolved  my  doubt, 
For  he  passed  disdainful  by  it. 


31 

For  stale  refuse 

He  has  no  use — 
This  clean-souled  little  rodent; 

Where  a  rat  would  thrive 

He  couldn't  live, 
And,  for  that  matter,  wouldn't. 

Curled  up  in  his  keep, 

He  spends  in  sleep 
The  winter;  but  when  spring's  beauties 

PeepV. forth,  he  awakes. 

And  promptly  takes 
Up  again  his  round  of  duties. 

The  litle  chipmunk 

Is  never  punk: 
Never  a  feckless  slacker; 

He  works  for  his  food, 

Aye,  and  makes  good, 
As  nut-storer,  and  nut-cracker. 


Big  Bear  Lake 

IN  summer  time  the  summer  heat 
Sends  lots  of  townsfolk  to  the  sea; 
Perhaps  the  Beaches  draw  the  elite, 

But  Big  Bear  Lake's  the  place  for  me. 

It's  no  haunt  nowadays — this  spot, 
Despite  its  soubriquet,  of  bears; 

But  bears'  society  is  not 

A  thing  for  which  one  greatly  cares. 


32 

Big  trout  in  the  big  lake  abound, 

And  freely  take  fat  hellgrammites; 

Big  mountain  ranges  stand  around, 

And  lift  to  heaven  their  pine-clad  heights. 

As  for  society,  you  meet 

By  daylight  feathered  friends  galore, 
And  chipmunks  gather  round  your  feet, 

If  you  but  feed  them,  by  the  score. 

Then  in  the  evening  as  you  sit 

Beside   your   camp-fire — by  the  way, 

Your  camp-fire-place  must  be  a  pit — 

Neighbours  come  round  and  make  things  gay. 

They  tell  you  tales  of  many  things; 

Then,  to  the  Ukulele's  chords, 
Some  sweet-voiced  singer  softly  sings 

Songs  in  Hawaii's  native  words. 

0  Big  Bear  Lake's  the  place  for  me, 
Depressed  by  toil  and  heat;  its  gifts 

Are  rest,  cool  airs,  soft  minstrelsy, 
Sport,  smiling  faces — all  uplifts. 

Trails 

PHEY  are  not  what  we'd  like  to  see — 
1  Your  roads,  0  California; 
Tho'  perfect  roads  exist,  maybe, 
Only  within  Utopia. 

Yours,  like  the  curate's  egg,  in  parts 
Are  excellent — good,  till  a  reach 

Occurs  of  tracks  which  break  our  hearts, 

Or  move  thoughts  far  too  deep  for  speech. 


"No  passing:"   "Road  up  for  repair:" 
"Road  passable  but  dangerous" — 

Such  legends  face  us,  and  we  fare 
By  by-ways  worse  than  villainous. 

Deep  drifts  of  sand  that  clog  our  path: 
Chuck-holes  that  jolt  us  into  fits: 

Wash-outs  left  wash-outs,  to  our  wrath: — 
These  things  knock  patience  into  bits. 

One  trail  alone  there  is  whereof 
I  never  heard  a  word  of  blame, 

A  word  of  scorn;  no  scoffers  scoff 
At  it,  tho'  some  smile  at  its  name, 

Walking  thro'  "Pine  Crest"  grounds  one  day, 
I  saw  a  sign  that  made  me  quail; 

"Danger:  Keep  out" — it  seemed  to  say, 
For  thus  it  ran— "The  Spinsters'  Trail." 

"This  is  no  place  for  me,  I  guess," 

Was  my  first  thought,  "who  am  a  man." 

I  thought  of  Tennyson's  Princess, 

And  from  those  precincts  all  but  ran. 

But  is  that  alley  consecrate 

To  spinsterhood  ?     Is  its  intent 

That  spinsters  here  should  congregate, 
Nor  fear  the  approach  of  any  gent? 

It  seemed  to  me  that,  whensoe'er, 
Looking  along  that  mystic  trail, 

I  glimpsed  a  couple  strolling  there, 
One  of  the  twain  was  always  male. 


34 

O  Spinsters,  spinning  webs  for  swains, 
In  perilous  paths  you  see  no  harm; 

Rocks,  sand-banks,  pit-holes  are  but  gains, 
If  you  can  clasx>  a  man's  strong  arm. 

O  Spinsters'  Trail,  queen  of  love-lanes, 

Your  sign-post  lacks  some  words,  I  fear; 

Should  it  not  add — "No  hope  remains 
For  bachelors  who  enter  here"? 


Things  Old  and  New 

D  friends,  old  books,  old  wines,"  we  say, 
"For  us" — 'tis  a  good  saying  too; 
Old  friends  are  best;  new  books  give  way 
To  old;  old  wine  surpasses  new. 

Here  you  may  have  old  friends,  and  here 

Find  in  our  public  libraries 
Books  of  all  ages;  yes,  but  where 

Are  wines  of  ancient  vintages?  , 

Our  climate  is  as  fair  and  fine 
As  Portugal's — aye,  every  whit; 

We  have  the  grapes  that  yield  her  wine, 
And  make  it.    But  what's  done  with  it? 

Shades  of  departed  connoisseurs, 
Forgive  the  tale  I  must  unfold; 

Our  Californian  bons  viveurs 

Drink  our  Port  wine  a  fortnight  old. 


35 

Forbidden  Fruit 

WHAT  was  the  fruit,  the  fateful  fruit, 
That  brought  in  death  and  pain  and  teen — 
Quince,  apple,  plum?    The  question's  moot, 
Save  that  it  wasn't  a  Citrine. 

It's  true  that  some  lay  all  the  blame 

On  shaddocks;  that's  an  idle  guess. 
All  Citrines,  worthy  of  the  name, 

Are  charged  with  thoughts  of  happiness. 

0  Orange  blossoms,  wedding  peals 

Ring  from  you,  tho'  your  bells  are  mute; 

0  Orange  pomes,  unless  one  steals, 

Thank  Heaven!  you're  not  forbidden  fruit. 


Titular  Honours 

T^ITLES,  bar  titles  borne  by  peers, 
*  In  this  new  land  are  rife — 
Some  of  them  echoes  of  the  years, 
I  reckon,  of  civic  strife. 

Even  of  peerage-titles  there 

Is  one,  if  I'm  not  mistook, 
You'll  hear  if,  when  you're  at  work,  you  wear 

A  collar,  and  that  is  "Dook." 

Thus  I've  been  dubbed  such   names   as  these — 

Professor,  Colonel,  Cap., 
Doc.,  Major,  Judge,  and,  if  you  please, 

Uncle— that  means  "Old  Chap." 


Titles  of  dignity  I  once 

Disclaimed;  'twas  idle  chatter; 

And  so,  since  nobody  called  me  "Dunce," 
I  reckoned  it  didn't  matter. 

For,  since  expostulation  just 

Provoked  a  gentle  smile, 
Dumb  acquiescence  seemed  the  best; 

Protests  were  not  worth  while. 

I  was,  I  said,  no  son  of  Mars, 

And  so  was  not  to  blame 
If  I  showed  blank  ignorance  of  all  wars, 

I  was  "Colonel"  all  the  same. 

I  mentioned  that  I'd  no  nephews  or 

Nieces,  and  must  confess 
The  title  was  strange  to  me  therefore. 

I  was  "Uncle"  none  the  less. 

Each  appellation  was,  I  guess, 

A  sort  of  courtesy; 
And,  since  it  made  for  friendliness, 

That  was  enough  for  me. 

I'm  not  yet  General;  that's  to  be 

Perhaps,  and  who  knows  what  more? 

There  may  be  yet  in  store  for  me 
The  title  of  Senator. 

I  may  arrive  at  the  dignity, 
Fate  willing,  of  Commodore; 

But  I  thankfully  add  that  certainly 
I  shan't  be  yclept  "Guvnor." 


37 


ENVOY 

THIS  little  ditty  is  not,  of  course, 
A  tale  of  The   Upper  Ten; 
It  speaks  of  those  we  call,  by  force 
Of  habit,  just  working  men. 

I'm   talking   of  boys   with   whom   I've   camped 

By  river  and  sea  and  lake: 
Of  boys   with  whom   I've   trailed   and  tramped 

Thro'  swamp  and  brush  and  brake. 

Hail!   comrades   all,   who   gave   me  names 

Of  honour  in  days  past:    Hail! 
To  the  honours  I  disavow  all  claims, 

But  here's  to  you  all — Wassail! 


In  the  Wilderness 

"THRO'  the  Mohave  desert  I 
1  Wandered,  and  feared  I'd  gone  astray; 
Until   at  last  my  searching  eye 

Espied   three   sign-boards   far   away. 

I  banished  fears,  hitched  up  my  pants, 
And  blessed  some  Good  Samaritan; 

Amalie  Autolubricants 

Soon  changed  my  blessing  to  a  ban. 

I  tried  the  next;  another  sell 

Mocked  me,  and  stirred  my  soul  to  rage; 
The  Fireproof  Baltimore  Hotel, 

Los  Angeles,  claimed  patronage. 


One  chance  remained;  my  eager  gaze 

Sought  the  third  board;  hope  perished  there; 

The  Goodrich  Tires,  always  all  ways. 
Just  tired  me  out,  and  bred  despair. 

Then,  as  I  fanned  my  fevered  brow, 
I  wished  all  mischiefs  to  the  gents 

Who  reared  those  boosting  signs;  and  now 
I  never  read  advertisements. 

Never,  O  never,  will  I  try 

A  Goodrich  tire,  or  patronize 
The  Baltimore  Hotel,  or  buy 

Aught  the  Amalie  Store  supplies. 

Illogical?    Well  yes,  maybe; 

I  will  forgive  them  by  and  by, 
When  sign-marks  of  topography 

Map  out  the  land,  and  show  its  lie. 

Some  Dawg 

\Y/E  have  a  dog;  we  call  him  Bobs; 
W   Named  after  him  of  Indian  fame; 
He  gives  himself  a  lot  of  jobs; 

In  fact  he  plays  the  chore-dog's  game. 

What  is  his  breed?    Well,  what  you  please, 
For  what  it  is  I  couldn't  state. 

Perhaps  it's  best  to  say  that  he's 
Cosmopolite  or  conglomerate. 

Some  of  his  acts  transgress  the  laws 

Of  comme  il  faut — what  ought  to  be — 

As  when  he  jumps  with  dirty  paws 

On  us  in  romping  slobbering  glee. 


39 

He  chased  the  chickens,  till  he  found 

Such  acts  meant  an  unpleasant  row; 

He  used  to  make  holes  in  the  ground 
Sacred  to  flowers.    He's  shut  out  now. 

He  barks,  and  wakes  us  up,  at  night 
Now  and  again;  and  that,  no  doubt, 

Annoys  us;  yes,  but  there  he's  right; 
It  means  coyotes  are  about. 

Ground  squirrels,  flooded  out,  he'll  catch; 

Gophers,  let  loose  from  traps,  he'll  kill; 
For  all  small  varmints  he's  a  match; 

But  one  thing  baffles  all  his  skill. 

When  Uncle  takes  his  hoe,  and  goes 
To  stub  up  weeds,  and  potter  round, 

Bobs  follows  him,  and,  I  suppose, 

Reckons  himself  a  prize  greyhound. 

For  quite  a  while  you  hear  no  sound; 

Then  suddenly  Bob's  little  song 
Starts,  yelp  on  yelp,  for  he  has  found 

His  quarry,  and  so  is  giving  tongue. 

The  old  jack-rabbit  goes  three  yards 

For  his  one  yard;  Bobs  doesn't  care; 

He  always  thinks  it's  on  the  cards 

He'll  catch  that  wretched  halfbred  hare. 

So  ventre  ^  terre  he  yelps  and  runs 

Till  the  jack-rabbit's  off  the  ranch; 

Then  he  comes  back,  as  knowing  the  fun's 
Over,  and  drinks  to  a  revanche. 


40 

This  is  his  grand  ambition;  he 

Lives  to  see  its  high  hope  fulfilled; 

I  think  his  very  dreams  must  be 

Of  old  jack-rabbits  coursed  and  killed. 

As  soon  as  ever  we  can,  we  will 

Give  the  old  blithering  ass  away — 

That's  what  we  say;  but  Bobs  is  still 
Here,  and  I  think  he's  oome  to  stay. 


Billy 

WE'VE  got  a  second  dog  now,  name  of  Billy; 
Him,  when  he  came,  Bobs  deemed  superfluous, 
And  sought  to  shift,  only  to  be  knocked  silly 
In  the  immediately  resultant  fuss. 

It  took  three  fights  at  least  to  end  that  row, 
For  Bobs  hates  interference  with  his  jobs, 

And  reckons  that  he  can  run  the  entire  show; 
But  Billy's  half  as  big  again  as  Bobs. 

What  is  his  breed?   Ah,  we  can  meet  that  query; 

Billy's  a  thoroughbred  Dalmatian, 
A  scion  of  noble  stock;  in  fact  a  verv 

Fine    specimen   of   that   distinguished   clan. 

Que  diable  va'  il  f aire  dans  cette  galere  ? 

Ah  well,  as  having  spent  years  upon  the  land, 
When  taken  to  town,  he  couldn't  settle  there; 

He  found  town-life  a  thing  he  couldn't  stand. 

He  scorned  the  tame  role  of  a  carriage-dog; 

The  canines  that  he  met  were  not  his  sort; 


41 

Along  the  streets  he  didn't  care  to  jog; 

He  wanted  space  to  roam  in,  freedom,  sport. 

So  he  was  brought  to  us;  here  all  things  are 
According  to  his  mind;  he  wanders  free 

About  the  ranch,  and  finds  in  constant  war 

Against  ground-squirrels  a  constant  ecstasy. 

He  sees  a  squirrel  sitting  by  its  hole; 

Points,  with  his  tail  erect  alas!  but  straight; 
Then,  as  a  wave  of  passion  floods  his  soul, 

Makes  his  onrush,  and  starts  to  excavate. 

His    head    first    sinks    from  sight;  then,  spasm  by 
spasm, 

'Mid  clouds  of  sand,  his  body  follows  suit; 
His  tail-tip  disappears;  result,  a  chasm — 

A  mighty  chasm — but  nary  game  as  loot. 

Yet,  all  the  same,  he's  helped  to  clear  the  ground 
About  the  house  of  these  banditti,  and, 

As  for  the  rest,  we  don't,  as  we  look  round, 

Begrudge  them  their  small  interest  in  the  land. 

That  and  guard's  duty  are  his  industry; 

Thus  are  his  hunting  instincts  satisfied; 
Thus,  as  joint-guardian  of  the  farmery, 

He  takes  his  place  as  comrade  at  our  side. 

The  Golden  Rule 

"HTHINK  of  the  other  fellow"— 'tis 

•  A   A  legend  that  you  read 
Set  up  by  mountain-streams,  and  this 
Is  Royal  Law  indeed. 


42 

Foul  not  the  mountain-becks  that  run 
To  slake  the  traveller's  thirst; 

That  were  an  act,  even  if  done 
Of  thoughtlesness,  accurst. 


Taint  not  the  streams  of  life;  that  sin 
Hurts  innocents,  and  he, 

Who  sins  it,  earns  a  scorn  akin 
To  Herod's  infamy. 


Who  drops  lit  matches  in  the  brush, 
Careless  what  may  betide, 

May  start  a  flame  whose  furious  rush 
Will  sweep  the  mountain-side. 


Guard  speech;  words  dropped  in  idleness 

May  rouse  a  blaze  of  ire; 
May  make  a  mischief  past  redress; 

For  tongues  are  as  a  fire. 


"Do  unto  others  as  you  would 

That  they  should  do  to  you" — 
Meet  needs,   set  right  what's   wrong,   do   good- 

That's  Law  and  Gospel  too. 


"Think  of  the  other  fellow"— that 

In  homely  language  is 
The  selfsame  rule,  and  tell  me  what 

Notice  could  better  this. 


43 


California 

Sung  at  the  National  Orange  Show,  San  Bernardino 


F  all  the  countries,  which  romance 

Has  pictured  as  earth's  hope  and  pride, 
Three  by  acclaim  —  Spain,  England,  France  — 

Stand  in  the  front  rank,  side  by  side. 
England  the  merry,  France  the  fair, 

Spain,  the  adventurous  knightly  land  — 
These  fill  the  picture;  yes,  but  where 

Does  sunny  California  stand? 
Refrain. 

0  land  of  fruits  and  flowers: 
O  land,  which  nature  dowers 

With    all    her    wealth    of  loveliness,    with   all  her 
braveries  : 

We  sound  abroad  thy  praise 
With  music  and  with  lays, 

Which  show  thee,  what  thou  surely  art,  an  earthly 
paradise. 

They  knew  her  not  —  the  minstrel-men, 

Who,  in  the  mid-age  of  our  earth, 
Chaunted  their  rhapsodies;  for  then 

She  had  not  come  to  her  full  birth. 
But  as  for  mirth  —  what  gramarye 

Her  sunshine  gladness  could  enhance? 
Is  she  not  fair  as  fair  can  be? 

Is  she  not  home  of  true  romance? 
Refrain. 


44 

What  shall  we  call  her?    Arcady? 

The  Country  of  the  Golden  Gate? 
The  Land,  above  all  lands  that  be, 

Of  Heart's  Desire?    The  Golden  State? 
No  matter.    Titles  such  as  these 

All  shadow  forth  her  grace  and  fame; 
Yet  count  that,  call  her  what  you  please, 

What  spells  romance  best  spells  her  name. 
Refrain. 

Romance?    Aye,  realized  romance: 

Fulfilments  of  hope's  prophecies: 
Ideals,  thro'  the  clairvoyance 

Of  one  seer,  made  realities — 
That  is  the  story  of  our  land; 

That  is  our  goodly  heritage; 
Pray  Heaven  that,  what  great  Serra  planned, 

We  may  work  out  from  age  to  age. 
Refrain. 

Apples  of  Gold 

Sung  at  the  National  Orange  Show,  San  Bernardino 

T  N  days  of  old,  so  ran  the  tale, 

*     Far  out  at  sea,  toward  the  West, 

Lay  isles,  untouched  by  frost  or  gale, 

Fair  as  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 
Upon  these  isles  grew  apple  trees, 

Whose  fruit  was  golden  to  the  eye, 
Safeguarded  by  the  Hesperides, 

And  a  grim  dragon,  couched  anigh. 

Refrain. 


45 

0  golden  apples  of  the  past, 
What  were  ye  but  a  dim  forecast 

Of  golden  oranges? 
What  were  those  isles  but  prophecies 
Of  California's  sunny  skies, 

And  sunlit  groves  and  leas? 

Whatever  crops  those  islands  bare 

On  Calif ornian  soil  are  grown; 
Her  citrus-fruits  will  stand  compare 

With  that  famed  fruit,  and  hold  their  own. 
And  California  bears  them,  not 

To  please  one  jealous  owner's  sight, 
But  for  the  world  to  use,  and  what 

She  seeks  is  the  whole  world's  delight. 
Refrain. 

No  cruel  dragon  has  its  lair 

Among  her  groves,  to  scare  or  slay; 
Not  even  rattlesnakes  lurk  where 

Her  orange-trees  make  their  display. 
Her  nymphs,  like  the  Hesperides, 

Are  daughters  of  the  golden  West 
But  what  they  guard  is  not  her  trees, 

But  hearts  of  those  they  love  the  best. 
Refrain. 

Eschscholtzia 

HAT  time  the  countries  of  the  earth 
Made  choice  of  flowers  to  typify 
Their  idiosyncrasies — as  mirth, 
Peace,  purity,  fertility: 


46 

Then  England  claimed  the  wilding  rose, 

Spain  the  pomegranate,  France  the  white 

Lily;  so  California  chose 

The  golden  flame-flower  as  her  right. 

Refrain. 

0  yellow  Eschscholtzia 
Of  California, 

You're  a  fit  flower-emblem  of  the  State  your  pres 
ence  beautifies; 

For,  brightest  of  all  the  poppies, 
The  colour  you  wear  just  copies 
The  sunshine  glory  which  makes  our  land  an  earthly 
paradise. 

She  has  her  wilding  roses  too: 

Pomegranates,  lilies,  everywhere: 
Aye,  flowers  of  every  form  and  hue, 

Whose  fragrant  breath  perfumes  the  air. 
The  flame-flower's  scent  is  not  its  pride; 

Its  swift  appeal  is  to  our  sight; 
It  clothes  the  barren  mountain-side, 

And  wastes  are  gardens  of  delight. 
Refrain. 

There  are  those  who  call  it  by  other  names — 

As  "Copa  d'Oro,"  the  cup  of  gold; 
But  we  name  it  best  as  the  flower  that  flames 

O'er  moor  and  desert,  on  cliff  and  wold. 
There  are  other  poppies,  and  all  are  bright, 

All  gay,  with  wonderful  tints  and  sheen — 
Rose-coloured,  scarlet,  pearly-white — 

But  the  golden  poppy's  the  poppy-queen. 
Refrain. 


47 

Out  West 

"QUT  WEST"    they  say.    All  right;  but  out  of 
^^     what? 

Out  of  what's  called  "High  Life?"     Way  out 

beyond 

The  gay  world's  pomr>s  and  pleasures  and  what  not: 
The  Vanity  Fair  of  fashion:  the  beau  monde? 

Well,  yes;  we  are  outsiders,  more  or  less, 

Thus  far;  with  us  Dame  Fashion's  not  a- top; 

That  doesn't  trouble  us  a  lot,  I  guess; 

We'd  sooner  have  a  cow-boy  than  a  fop. 

But,  all  the  same,  in  these  far  distant  Darts 
We're  fairly  civilized  upon  the  whole; 

We  have  our  share,  I  think,  of  generous  hearts — 
Of  souls  who  look  past  dollars  for  their  goal. 

We're  not  illiterates;  if  folk  are  short 

Of  books,  that  want  is  even  now  supplied. 

The  Arts  and  Sciences  hold  constant  Court 

Among  us,  and  are  honoured  far  and  wide. 

'The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul" 

Enter  our  social  feasts,  and  give  them  zest; 

Our  sympathies  reach  out  from  pole  to  pole; 
We're  not  parochial  sectaries  "Out  West." 

Fakers  there  are  among  us,  grafters  too — 

Tricksters,     who     batten    on    their     brethren's 
needs — 

Yes,  but  they  are  not  of  us — are  not  true 

Sons  of  the  race  that  the  West  Country  breeds. 


48 

And  as  for  climate,  as  for  fruits  and  flowers — 
Well,    of    these    things   we're    not    inclined    to 
boast; 

But  when  the  States  "Back  East"  can  better  ours, 
Then  we'll  make  tracks  for  the  Atlantic  coast. 

Meantime  we've  lots  to  think  of  and  to  do; 

Our  work's  cut  put  for  us  from  day  to  day; 
We  have  our  play  times,  and  we  use  them  too; 

In  short  we're  here,  and  here  we  mean  to  stay. 


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